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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27768658">Holding Hands In the Descent To Hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DegenerateBible/pseuds/DegenerateBible'>DegenerateBible</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Movies - Nolan)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Heavy Swearing, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:01:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27768658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DegenerateBible/pseuds/DegenerateBible</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If hell were this bed, he’s certain they would hold hands as the flames flickered around them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Crane/Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Holding Hands In the Descent To Hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan reclines on his sofa with a leather bound antique medical journal, enjoying the gilded illustrations. There’s a knock and he freezes, frowning, ice blue eyes narrowing. The knock comes again, louder almost frenzied. He crosses the room, prepares for a fight, and opens it.<br/>
Batman stands in the doorway, black against the black night, carrying a dead looking Joker in his arms. The clown’s green hair hangs limply from his scalp, skin pale under the powder, red all round the scars. </p><p>“What the hell did you do to him?” Crane: adrenaline, wrath. He removes the clown from the vigilante’s grasp, hauling him over to the coffee table and laying him down. Joker’s pulse is thready and weak against his fingers, breath only a bit uneven. </p><p>“Joker?” Crane probes, gripping his chin, slapping his cheek, “Joker, can you hear me?” The Joker’s eyes roll in their sockets. Ripping open the purple shirt, he finds the gash in the Joker’s side. He swears under his breath, holding his hands to the wound, feeling the warm blood seep between his fingers.  </p><p>The room reeks of copper.  </p><p>The Bat stands in the doorway, watching Crane’s hands get covered in the Joker’s blood. His controlled movements. </p><p>“You,” Crane calls sharply, eyes lethal beyond the glint of his glasses. “If you’re done standing there like an imbecile, go to the bathroom down the hall and get me the first aid kit.”<br/>
The vigilante nods stiffly,  disappears darkly down the hall. His thoughts are racing, trying to piece together things that didn’t seem to fit. The Joker had begged and pleaded to be returned to Crane, and the vigilante had given in, thrown off by the strange behavior. When had he ever asked for anyone? All he can do is watch the doctor glove his hands, shoot the Joker up with something, probe the inside of the wound meticulously.</p><p>“He’ll need stitches,” Jonathan announces after a stretch of silence, removing the proper materials. The doctor is careful in his work, knitting together ripped skin with a neat row of black stitches. He’s silent throughout the process, occasionally adjusting his glasses. When the laceration is fully righted, he exhales heavily, his blood stained fingers brushing the green hair from the Joker’s eyes. </p><p>The clown opens his eyes to the sound of Jonathan washing his hands in the kitchen sink. His vision is fuzzy, tongue thick and cottony on the roof of his mouth. He grunts, trying to move. </p><p>“Don’t.” Drying his hands Jonathan approaches the dazed man, helping him into the sitting position. The Joker’s eyebrows furrow as his fingers brush over the fresh sutures. </p><p>“Those stitches can’t get wet for a full 48 hours,” Jonathan says looking him in the eye. He cuts a glance in the vigilante’s direction. “Let’s get upstairs.”</p><p>The two men disappear down the hall.  Batman takes a moment to consider his situation. This is his chance to leave unnoticed. How easy it would be to walk out the front door and disappear into the night. He could return to the penthouse,  crawl between the sheets, pretend this never happened. Yet something keeps him glued to his spot waiting for the doctor’s return.<br/>
Crane lives in a surprisingly nice apartment, clean, in a lesser known neighborhood, poor but not a slum. The perfect place to blend in. </p><p>“We need to talk,” he says flatly, as he reenters, removing his glasses and placing them on the coffee table, ignoring the blood. “Please have a seat.” </p><p>The masked man complies when Crane sits, slipping into a chair, cape falling after him. It feels unnerving, having a conversation with his first true adversary so casually. The man before him has changed since the last time he’d dropped him in Arkham almost three years ago. He has stubble on his jaw, his eyes seem darker, his thin body now broad. He’d grown up. More Crane less Crow. Or perhaps the other way around. </p><p>“Thank you for returning him.” </p><p>“He asked,” Bruce answers gruffly, noting the doctor’s choice of words. “Told me how to get here.”</p><p>The other man nods, looking unsurprised. “I’m guessing you didn’t do this to him.” He crosses his legs, forming a cage with his fingers. </p><p>“No,” he says, “the mob did it. A cross-mob hit. They’re tired of his games.” </p><p>“Aren’t we all,” Crane mutteres with a wispy sigh. He rubs his eyes before turning the cerulean pools to the vigilante once more.  He looks as though he’s about to say something more before a loud crash sounds from somewhere else in the flat. “Damned clown,” he murmurs, rising and moving swiftly down the hall. Batman is behind him in a flash. </p><p>The clown is stumbling around the room, mumbling incoherently. His hair falls over his eyes. In the shadows he looks every bit the feral animal. </p><p>“You need to lie down.” </p><p>Joker turns at the sound of Crane’s voice. “You ripped my suit,” he slurs. The suit is in fact in tatters, jacket shredded, vest ripped, shirt to shreds revealing a bit of his scarred and bloodstained torso. </p><p>The doctor raises an eyebrow. “I also saved your life. But I’m sure that loses its wonder the 7th time around.” He approaches the other man, Joker’s eyes almost lost in the black pits as they regard him. </p><p>“You need to lie down,” he repeats, going to push him put the Joker seizes his wrist too fast for anyone to see coming, brings a blade to his throat, before abruptly collapsing on the bed. </p><p>“Pain killers,” Crane says simply. He exhales, glancing at the other man who reclines stiffly against the door. “Why did you bring him? You could’ve easily dropped him at Arkham,” he asks, voice raspy, not bothering to look up. </p><p>“It was either that or leaving him there,” The Dark Knight replies, voice gruff. Under the suit his muscles are taut, body ramrod straight with tension. He doesn’t know why. He just knows the Joker’s battered body when he found him giggling in an alleyway, beaten by something other than his own two hands. </p><p>“And why is that?” Crane challenges and leaves the room, forcing the vigilante to follow.<br/>
They’re in the living room yet again. The door is slightly ajar, the air thick. Facing each other, Crane’s eyebrows raised in anticipation. Bruce doesn’t have an answer. The seconds tick by painfully slow before Crane sighs and turns away. </p><p>“Well you think about that,” he says, not bothering to turn back around. Knowing he was already gone.<br/>
...</p><p>Two months later, it’s a rainy night in the Narrows. Gotham rain, so much dirtier than rain elsewhere, drowning rats and clogging drains. The Joker is meandering through the streets not doing much of anything. Not yet. </p><p>He likes the way the sidewalks clear as he strolls, even the hardest criminals anxiously making room. He slips  inside a bar, silencing any conversation for several seconds before it’s clear the harlequin is thirsty rather than hungry. The barman is a hit-boy for the mob but Joker righted that previous wrong with over a dozen corpses in the morgue. The glass shakes in his hand as he passes the joker his rum and coke. </p><p>“Much obliged,” the clown drawls and winks, an antagonistic giggle bubbling in his throat. He surveys the room. Nygma is at the other end of the bar talking animatedly to the man next to him. The man is drinking a beer and Joker remembers his face from a bank hit a month ago. Not sloppy, but not artistic in any way. He only respects fellow artists. Ivy is tucked into a booth in the back near the jukebox, running her vines up a nervous ginger’s leg. The poor bastard doesn’t know what’s coming, Joker thinks and chuckles aloud. Gaze sweeping one last time to Penguin and Two-Face playing cards, and a few other small timers talking loud, glasses clinking.<br/>
Bruce watches him from the other side of the murky window, a newspaper and a baseball cap the only things shielding him from the rain. He hasn’t seen him since that night at Crane’s. Where has he been? He isn’t the type to lick his wounds, certainly not the type to feel wounds to begin with. He’s an animal, a creature of the kill, as unpredictable as the atom bomb. </p><p>But then Joker makes direct eye contact with him through the glass then tips an imaginary hat, mirth swimming in his snake eyes. </p><p>Bruce begins walking knowing his nemesis will follow. He hears the footsteps behind him, intermixed with the pissing rain making steam rise on the sidewalks. The footfalls behind him pick up their pace, he can hear the laughter roaring in his ears. When they’re under the bridge Bruce finally turns and grabs him. Pushing him against the concrete beam. The Joker’s eyes are practically smoldering, mouth turned up in dark humor. He’s in a new suit that beads with moisture, hair wild as ever. </p><p>“Bruce Bruce Bruce,” he begins with a disappointed shake of the head. “Isn’t it my turn to be ‘it' in our little tag and seek? Unless you’re trying to foil another of my fun plans right?”<br/>
Bruce says nothing. He’s long accepted the Joker knows his real identity, that it means nothing to him, has nothing to do with their game. No matter how he looks, he is always Batman. </p><p>“But!” Joker continues spreading out his arms, “No fun plans tonight. Just a clown on the town. So uh what’s up Batsy boy?” He walks closer, til they’re almost chest to chest and lowers his voice, “Don’t tell me you <i>missed<i> me.” </i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He decks him. It’s unexpected by no one. The Joker guffaws, spits red on the pavement and lunges til they’re both bleeding on the gravel. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“What. Do. You. Want.” Each snarl accompanied by a kick to the billionaire’s stomach. Batman grabs the leg and twists him to ground, landing blow after blow to the painted face. Joker throws him off, a wild look in his eyes, a bloodied grin, his laughs blanketed with heavy rain. His knife glints in the streetlights before Bruce grabs him, straddles him, arm reared back in a punch. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Below him, bleeding, the Joker tuts. “Jonathan would not like this.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>And for some ungodly reason the thought of Jonathan being jealous, the Joker having to pay for it, the rain roaring in his ears, the blood in his mouth, the damp heat of the clown under his thighs makes Bruce hard, the damp jeans doing nothing to hide it. Bruce is horrified by his lust, falling off him in shock. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Joker purrs, gaze pleased and deadly. “Maybe Jonathan would like this,” he says, before he’s beaten into unconsciousness, laughing the whole time.<br/>
…<br/>
Batman  doesn’t know how long it's been. But it’s snowing now, a bitter cold. Crane is smoking a cigarette in a desolate parking lot around 2AM, his breath visible. He feels his fatigue, wishing this certain career path came with more reasonable business hours. He’s waiting for Georgiano Guiseppi, or GG, one of his main buyers. He wonders if his intelligence is wasted, making more potent black market drugs for profit. Isn’t he a scientist? He craved his experiments again. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Guiseppi arrives with his boys in black and his sharp fanged dogs, his suitcase of money. GPD arrives soon after, the walls going red and blue. Batman watches all of this from across the garage. Drug deals didn’t concern him. The cops are, or should be, able to handle it. But he likes to give them cover. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>There’s bullets and barking and grown men shouting on all sides. But what gets Bruce is that Crane is absolutely still amongst the chaos, just watching. He’s calculating, almost annoyingly confident. He doesn’t run, he moves quickly between the mass, bobbing, ducking, weaving, almost like a dancer. Then throwing himself over the edge. He lands 8 feet below on empty cardboard boxes, shakes himself, and is gone. Bruce shakes his head. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Then he realizes he should have chased him. The thought hadn’t even occurred.<br/>
…</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Bruce is alone in the cave. He’s fiddling with the latest weaponry, wishing Fox sent instructions every once and awhile. The police scanner is turned up high, the suit lays at the ready. But he doesn’t want to respond tonight, doesn’t want the weight of blurry bat signals and busted jaws.<br/>

Especially not Joker or Crane. They don’t dominate his thoughts. He’s still a billionaire playboy and there are a plethora of other criminals. It’s just every now and then, every couple of weeks or so, he thinks of them. Independently. Together. Joker’s echoing laugh. Jonathan’s cunning. Their brutality. Their violence. Their brilliance. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He doesn’t want to think about these men, or any men. He’s never thought of men before. But after he does fight them, feels their skin under his fists, in the shower he can’t  shake the thoughts. Feeling shame even as he strokes his cock, the hot water running over him. He imagines their bodies, Jonathan’s strong arms, Joker’s smooth thighs, and cums imagine them grinding and groaning against him.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When he gets out of the shower, the shame always transforms into anger. He dons the suit with renewed dedication as if that would absolve him. Til night bleeds to morning he fights, he prowls, he pushes himself harder than ever. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>One night, in a moment of weakness he disguised himself and went into a gay bar bordering the Narrows. It was hushed and he was already drunk so perhaps he drew more attention than he wanted. But he sat himself at the edge of the bar and knocked back Manhattans.<br/>
When the tall man with brown eyes and sandy hair sat down next to him, Bruce couldn’t help but look him over. He found himself comparing his arms, his legs, his jaw with that of the two men circling inside his skull. When he said his name was Rudy, Bruce nodded. When he said he thought  Bruce had nice eyes, Bruce said thank you. When Rudy went to touch his wrist Bruce had him face down on the bar pleading for mercy. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“If you’re not gay why the fuck are you here?” Rudy yelled once he’s freed. All the eyes were on Bruce, waiting angrily for a reply. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Bruce just walked out instead. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>A report comes crackling over the radio: a stolen 18-wheeler bounding up Broad Street. 3 cops killed already, two unresponsive. He pulls on the suit without thought, almost anxious to fall into the dark.<br/>
...</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Master Wayne, may I ask what is the matter,” Alfred says after yet another sleepless night for his surrogate son. He’s pouring coffee when he asks, and Bruce’s eyes travel from the newspaper to the old Englishman, red-rimmed and bloodshot. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“What do you mean Alfred,” Bruce says finally, casually adding sugar and cream. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well sir,” Alfred begins, “You’ve been sleeping less than usual. You’re not eating. You don’t seem much concerned with your day job and rather preoccupied on your night job.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Bruce chuckles, giving a school boy smile that would fool nearly anyone else. “I’m alright. I’m just…” he shakes his head, “Trying to focus. I have to push myself. I’m alright Alfred but Batman? Enough is never enough, criminals are evolving, I have to evolve as well.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The Butler nods. “Yes but do be careful sir, some evolution breeds extinction.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Bruce looks at him sharply but turns back to the paper without another word.<br/>
…</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He’s drunk. He can’t stop himself. Joker’s latest hideout is a condemned hotel in what used to be Gotham’s posh district over  10 years before. It stands gothic against the clouds, the gold paint long faded , the walls littered with graffiti. He manages to make it to the penthouse using the remains of service stairs and his grappling hooks. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>But neither are there. Joker’s knives, his suits, gunpowder, guns, and make-up are hurricaned across the room. Pills, powders, needles, a scale, a medical bag, laid neatly on the desk. He moves dazedly through these objects, occasionally staring dumbly at a knife or a scalpel. Why am I here? Why the fuck am I here? But then he hears the laugh, that sharp echoing staccato coming from somewhere above his head. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They’re on the roof, legs cast over each other, smoking a joint, a half empty wine bottle between them. Jonathan is whispering in the clown’s ear, and Joker laughs quietly now, an intimate sound. The doctor smiles proudly before exhaling smoke, before passing it to Joker, and as he passes it, his eyes land on Bruce. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They register neither shock nor surprise. He smiles but it could easily be a smile for the madman laughing against his shoulder. Either way, Jonathan mumbles something into the clown’s ear that makes him turn, assessing Batman up and down unhurriedly. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well,” the Joker finally says and his voice seems to echo. Sun is setting beyond him, casting soft pastel light on his hair, the expectant look that held neither madness nor pity.<br/>
Bruce looks at the both of them, feeling unsteady. The Joker’s face is mostly free of paint and this is the first time the Bat has ever really seen him. He’s young, dirty blonde, strong cheekbones, mangled, beautiful. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I…” He begins but stops, his brain is too muddled. He’s thinking of his mother, Alfred, Rachael, Dent, the men before him. All flowing in a continuous swill so fast he may just vomit. Jonathan rises and Joker follows suit. “I don’t want to fight you,” he says finally, in his normal voice, “I just wanted... I don’t know what the fuck I wanted... I just... wanted...are you together?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s Jonathan’s turn to laugh. “You drunk bastard. Do you want us to hold hands? Suck each other off? What do you want?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes Batsy boy,” the Joker echoes, crossing his arms, “Spit it out.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He charges them, seeing red. Jonathan dodges but the Joker likes to take him head on. Bruce manages to grab Joker by the collar and for a sharp moment looks like he’ll throw him off the roof. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>But he throws him down into the gravel instead, smashing their lips together. Jonathan pushes him off and they wrestle, a punch, a kick, a pulling of hair. There’s blood on both sides before they kiss, clawing at each other’s skin. They all but drag the Joker down with him, tearing the seams of his clothes, determined to have his laughs turn to screams. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Take this <i>off<i>,” Joker says impatiently, clawing at the kevlar. His eyes smolder, mouth open, shirt gone to tatters on his lean stomach, the sun blazing around him as it finally sinks. </i>
  </i>
</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They fuck him right there in the gravel under blue hour, feeling the tight wet heat of his ass and mouth. He ruts against them, looking pleadingly into their eyes, his own half-hooded. Bruce loves the chaos compliant under his hands. How rough Crow can be when he comes out. They fuck him harder and harder, til his knees are bloody and they’ve made a mess of him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They sink to the tar. On their backs, Bruce can see the forming stars. He’s still breathing heavy, his suit lay like lego pieces all around them. He wonders if some fell over the edge. He watches Joker stretch then rise, blood showing through what remained of purple jeans, the bleeding bite marks on his thighs and jugular. He reaches over, Bruce hears some rustling, some movement on Jonathan’s part, then cigarette smoke hits his nostrils. He’s practically naked and the wind is sharp. It sobers him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Joker and Crow are silently trading a cigarette back and forth. Bruce rises up to his elbows, a headache beginning to form where intoxication once was. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Joker wordlessly extends the cigarette to him. He doesn’t hesitate to take it, forcing him to sit up fully. Below them, the city throbs with lights and cars, shopping centers, food places. It is large, treacherous, unforgiving.  No worse that any other major city. The people have learned to roll with the punches. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When the cigarette is out both Crow and Bruce deny another. The Joker smokes three more, grinding out each one between his fingers. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well,” Crow says, and looks around casually for his glasses. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well what?” Bruce says though he knows what’s coming. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“This is the part Batsy,” Joker says teasingly, his eyes stone cold sober. “The part where you stay or you get the fuck out.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Bruce stands. It’s silent for several moments. They are all thinking. Thinking what? Crane shrugs his suit Jacket over the clown’s shoulders.  His brown converse get thrown at him with a giggle. Bruce’s mask falls into his hands and he has no idea who put it there. He stares at it, at what it means to millions at this point. What would his father think? But no, there’d be no Batman without his early initiation to bloodshed. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t want to stay,” He says finally. He takes in both of them.  Jonathan’s tall body. He’s wearing a ripped white Oxford shirt, brown jeans. He looks all the cold killer, sacrificing lives for his hypothesized results. And the Joker? A true creature of the kill, an anarchist, a predator even with the suit jacket swallowing him, the pretty eyes and plump mouth. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Then what are you waiting for hmm?” Joker taunts, “a knife to the throat?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“No. I don’t want to stay,” he repeats, “But I was hoping you would come with me.”<br/>
Joker snorts, “What?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Come back with me to the penthouse. No one is there. That’s all.” He looks into Crane’s eyes. “That’s all.” The doctor is calculating Bruce, his intentions. Joker is playing the dozens against his thighs, humming and rocking on the balls of his feet. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Alright,” Jonathan says, a warning there.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i> “But if this is a trap,” Joker adds with a cheek shredding smile, “we’ll kill you.”<br/>
…<br/>
It ain’t all roses. They still wage war on the city and each other. Night after night, explosions collapse buildings. Women scream in terror. Junkies overdose in the streets. The Joker holds up another bank. Scarecrow kills two would-be thieves. Joker carves up enough smiles for certain places to always smell of decomposition. And Bruce beats them back, fights them for the city’s soul, nearly takes both their lives and they do the same with him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You’re one sick bastard,” Batman snarls, following up with a brutal left hook that left the jester rolling and laughing til he couldn’t breathe. He rights himself calmly, rears back and swing kicks Batman, knocking the wind out of him and follows with an uppercut. Blood floods the Bat’s mouth, his vision hazes for a moment. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Batman seizes him by the neck, both hands, banging his head again and again against the concrete til the cats foraging in the dumpster scurry. He isn’t seeing him, he’s seeing the dead bodies piled up in the warehouse, the slit throats and carved smiles. How they must have screamed. Bargained. Begged. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Join the club Batsy-boy,” Joker says, kicking him off, digging a blade between the Kevlar. Joker chuckles darkly, laying the softest kiss to Bruce’s cheek before yanking the blade out. Red seeps onto black, between his fingers. A knee to the face and he’s out. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>By the time he wakes, Joker is gone. Though his laughter still seems to reverberate under Batman’s skin.<br/>
…<br/>
It’s 4AM. Jonathan is laid out under the sheets when the Joker stumbles in practically electrified. Jonathan knows him fresh off a fight, wired, high off it. He wouldn’t be able to sit still if he tried.<br/>
“What do you got? What do you got? Johnny-Boy, Oh, Johnny,” he calls, knocking things over as he goes. Jonathan groans and flicks on the lamp. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Through Crane’s hazy eyes he’s a vision, a bruised demon in the low light. His lip is split, his nose is bloody. The side of his jaw is swelling already and the doctor would bet money the Bat fractured a rib again. He gets up and reluctantly puts on his glasses. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Rise and shine! Isn’t it such a beautiful day.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“It’s the middle of the night asshole,” Jonathan says around a yawn, flicking on the actual light and reaching under the bed for his medical bag. He turns to the Joker. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Oh no no no  doc,” Joker tuts, seizing his wrists and throwing him to the floor. “I’m a big boy. I can sew myself up.” Jonathan swipes his legs out from under him. Joker drops with a thud, laughing so loud and long Jonathan can’t help but chuckle. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Then the Bat comes in, dark, limping. He and the Joker lock eyes. This murderer laughing on the floor, busted and bruised by Bruce’s own hands. Bruce wants to kill him for those killed. But instead he pulls him up by the shirt, jostles him roughly, then kisses him before letting the jester drop again. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Joker rises, bringing Jonathan up with him, who frowns at the blood dripping from the Bat’s suit.<br/>
“Look at him first doc,” Joker confirms with a vindicated smile, “He got it worse than me.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Bruce snorts, but removes his mask, brushing back his damp hair. He lays down on the bed and lets them strip him of kevlar and spandex. They’re careful with the pieces knowing they’re a part of him. While Jonathan does The Bat’s stitches, Joker rolls a blunt, pops an oxy. They pass it between each other. Bruce watches Jonathan’s mouth as he sews  him up, a bit chapped, half open in concentration. He follows the Joker with his eyes. The criminal moves sporadically around the room then, as the blunt dwindles,  almost seems to twirl around it. The books, the dresser, the TV, the desk laden with notes and newspapers and diagrams. He begins to hum, some southern almost somber ballad in a low, soft voice Bruce has never heard and wonders if he will again.<br/>
Done with the Bat, Crane turns to the Joker, sanitizing his wounds, bandaging his ribs, icing his jaw. All while he recounts the fight, laughing, his voice rising up the walls, elbowing Bruce til they all were laughing at least a little. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Between the weed and the pain pills Bruce feels nothing except fatigue. He lays a kiss to Jonathan’s lips when he’s done. The doctor shakes off the thanks but not the gesture, throwing Joker a pack of cigarettes because he knows what he needs. The madman smokes a good four while Bruce and Jonathan settle themselves on either side of the bed. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dawn tries to pierce the curtains but the Joker resolutely pulls them closed. He slinks out of his pants, unbuttons his shirt. When he collapses between the two men, they’re already half-asleep. Joker looks up both their faces, Bruce’s square jaw, Jonathan’s near blonde chest hair. He’s looked men in the eye as he destroyed them. Dug into the meat of people. Will probably burn when it’s all said and done. He sighs as Bruce’s arm wraps around him, as Jonathan’s legs entangle with his own. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>If hell were this bed, he’s certain they would hold hands as the flames flickered around them.</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Will most likely continue</p></blockquote></div></div>
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